


Put The Fire Out

by kinkyhux



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff and Smut, Light Angst, M/M, Sibling Incest, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-05-18 21:17:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14860469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinkyhux/pseuds/kinkyhux
Summary: Dean placed a lot of his faith in his little brother. He trusted him to get the right beer, to do the research well and with ease. Hell, he’s even saved Dean’s life on occasion. But the one thing Dean knew he couldn’t trust Sam with was picking out a car.But he let him do it anyway because he’s the greatest big brother in the world, and it’s his mortal flaw, his Achilles’ foot or whatever.“This,” Dean said, the Tallahassee heat bearing down on him, “is garbage, dude.”Chapter four is up!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set in early season one, and ignoring a few things from the order of events in the season for the purpose of plot.
> 
> I recommend listening to the song the title is taken from: Courtney Marie Andrews' _Put The Fire Out._

_ because i am ready to put the fire out _

_ there’s a place for everything _

_ and i think i know mine now _

-Courtney Marie Andrews  
  


  


**Route 76, Georgia**

**2005**

Georgia was somewhere in the top five of Dean’s favorite-drive-through-states list. At three o’clock in the morning, however, it was cold air coming through the cracked window and dark, terrifying, curling roads through mountains and forests and both at the same time. Whoever thought to put roads on forest-covered mountains, Dean decided as he turned just enough not to fly off the edge of an barricade-free turn, was fucking insane.

Sam was asleep, but the force of the turns kept jostling him and made his long limbs flop him into wakefulness.  _ Tough shit _ , Dean had said the first time Sam had woken up, opening his mouth to nag him about his reckless driving. And tough shit it was.

“If you slow down, it wouldn’t be that bad,” Sam said for the umpteenth time, sighing as Dean hit the gas and then quickly hit the break, and again, just to fuck with him. “Break-checking? Really?”

“You drive, then.”

“No, thank you. I don’t want to be the one to kill us.”

“All I heard was, “I admit I’m a bad driver,” and I’m perfectly fine with that.” Sam didn’t respond, just turned towards the door and let his mind wander in the dark.

Whatever horrors came of climbing this mountain had nothing on the survival battle Dean had waiting for him on the way down. Once they were on flat, straight ground, Sam found an exit on the map where there would hopefully be a motel with hot water and scouring pad towels. Dean stared tiredly ahead at a long stretch of back-roads with awful lighting and a small population of cars somewhere far in the distance--so far that the tinkling of their headlights faded in and out of Dean’s sight, way out where dirt turned to asphalt and crops into strip malls. He blinked the tiredness away, and reached down to the cup holder for a coffee he knew would be cold and grey and sad, and sipped it anyway, thinking,  _ Me, too, buddy _ .

“If you’re getting tired,” Sam said quietly, concern in his voice and in the eyes set intently on his brother, “I can drive the next ten miles. I’ve had enough rest.”

“I’m okay.” Dean didn’t look at him in the dark. If he looked at Sam, he’d cave, he’d let Sam drive, he’d let Sam convince him to eat something healthy for dinner, he’d let Sam put on Fleetwood Mac for hours, and Josh Grobon or some shit.  _ Hours _ . “I’m okay.”

“When’s the last time you slept?”

“I said I’m okay, Sammy.” Dean cleared his throat and sipped more of the coffee, wincing. He could feel a familiar weirdness radiating from Sam, when he got all stick-up-his-ass and annoyed, and he would try to work out how to use civility to solve the tension because Sam’s a good lawyer somewhere in there, would’ve done real well for himself if Dean didn’t crash into his world. But civility would only make it worse, always did. Dean let him pout for a few miles, a good sulk never hurt anyone. Dean put on some tunes, a little Zepplin to keep him attentive, listening, paying attention.

The impact occurred at 3:02 am.

A narcoleptic semi T-boned the Impala, which rolled over and over until it reached a field and then skidded into the side of a goddamned mini-mountain of dirt recently dug up from the earth. It came to an abrupt halt, rocking back for a moment from the momentum. Dean hadn’t even opened his eyes before he began mumbling, “Sam...Sammy… C’mon Sam.”

He reached a hand over to feel for him, and then realized he didn’t need to, because there was Sammy’s mop of hair against his shoulder, now matted with blood. And there were voices, and sirens, and he couldn’t really see anything except colors and shapes and the stars, and his chest and legs were so wet, and there were the stars above him, like headlights and streetlamps. And he turned his head and there was his little brother being loaded into an ambulance, left arm falling off of the stretcher in haste. Dean attempted to sit up as he rambled, “Gotta ride...with him, sorry, please--” It was hard to breathe, and his skin was tight, and there were cold hands on him, holding him down.

_ “I’m sorry, sir, you have to stay still. You may have hurt your neck and moving could further damage it.” _

_ “Sir, are you allergic to any medications?” _

_ “I’m going to need you to stay awake, sweetie, can you do that for me?” _

_ “Blood loss is minimal, but this glass piece in his thigh may have hit an artery. Make sure…” _

_ “What’s your name, darling?” _


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic will have a lot more chapters/content, but I didn't want to set a definite amount of chapters in case it scares me into procrastinating.

**Blue Ridge, Georgia**

**One week later**

“I’ve never felt more empty in my entire life,” Dean lamented, holding his stomach. They’d just been released from the hospital, and the outside world was different. Warmer, but not any more inviting. The last week was a nightmare, and between trying to heal and worrying about his baby brother, he really didn’t have the saint-like patience he normally possessed. So when Dean said, “I’ve never felt more empty,” he really, truly meant it.

Sam hummed in agreement as Bobby helped him into his truck. He was pretty beat up, a chunk of hair missing from somewhere near the back of his neck, where glass had to be removed and stitches put in. His arm was broken in two places, and his leg so badly bruised the muscles had all but given up on the healing process until yesterday. He had limped like a trooper from the automatic doors of the hospital to the backseat of the truck.

“I’ll fix you boys something to eat when we get there,” Bobby offered, starting the car and peeling slowly out of the parking lot. “Julie helped me stock the apartment with food and everything you’ll need. Soap and shit like that, too. She lives on the same floor, just let her know if you need something.”

“I really appreciate everything you’re doing for us, Bobby,” Sam said, adjusting the strap on his sling.

“It’s not a problem. I’ll be flying back to South Dakota tomorrow morning. Make sure you don’t need me before then, because while I will turn around for you, I will also kick your asses.”

The boys laughed quietly, Dean wincing and bringing a hand to his side. Two broken ribs along his left side, where the airbag had so violently erupted just too far to the right of Dean, sending him flying chest-first into his door in the initial impact. Dean blinked away the memory and touched the bandage around his head absently. It made his ears itch.

Sam was worse for wear-- his busted arm, bum leg, and looking like he got into a fight with a cat from all of the glass that had settled into his neck and face. Red nick marks and some stitches along his collarbone. Bruises in places that didn’t make sense. Dean had it all too, but it was worse for Sammy, and maybe Dean was just being a little overprotective, but it wasn’t fair. And then there was the gaping hole in Sam’s leg, where a piece of metal from the car had plunged into his calf. It was stitched closed but not healing well. He’d been given antibiotics to prevent infection, and special bandages. This whole thing was a shit show.

So when Dean started tearing up, looking out onto the road ahead, suddenly overwhelmed with emotions he didn’t ask for, not Bobby nor Sam asked if he was okay. They just gave him that pitying look, maybe a little understanding from Sam through the rear-view, and minded their business. And Dean was grateful. And he didn’t make a sound.

Bobby found them a place in Blue Ridge, which was a community that looked like suburbs, but was actually decorated like a large backwoods family, where everyone knew everyone and hunting was the thing to do.

Their apartment was one bedroom, one bathroom, and one large center room which had a kitchen area against the back wall behind some privacy wall with an island in the middle, and a big, old couch in front of a television. It would do.

Bobby left with kind words, and they met Julie, who showed them where everything was and found out what kind of stuff they’d still need. She was Bobby’s high school girlfriend, a bright and personable woman with grey strands in her hair and rouge on her cheeks.

“That’s the grand tour,” she’d said, essentially doing a spin to show them around, pointing. They all smiled. “Still haven’t rented the space, so you better keep it clean.”

“Of course,” Sam said, yawning. “I think I’m gonna put on some clean clothes and lay down.” And he did, leaving Dean with Julie’s kind smile.

“I got into a crash with my son, this was way back. He was fine, but I’d gotten a little bruised. He was so sweet, only six at the time. Brought me breakfast in bed.”

“I have a question,” Dean said quietly, hesitantly, licking his lips. He wasn’t expecting the words when they came to him. “Sam, he… He gets nightmares. About, like, things, right?” Julie stared, brow tight. Dean shuffled awkwardly. He didn’t want to tell some stranger Sam’s business. And it wasn’t even Dean’s business, really. But Sammy had a broken arm, and all kinds of shit, and he got all thrashy and violent when it happened, and he was sensitive, really, so it was just kind of him to ask. And maybe Dean was a little afraid he might get them, too. “Well, I guess I’m wondering if there’s a way to, y’know, help with that.”

Julie took a deep breath and thought for a moment. “It just takes time, sweetie. It’s not easy, no trauma is. But the most important thing is that you don’t hide what you’re going through. Maybe talking to him will help?” Dean nodded. He thanked her and led her the four feet out the door.

When they were finally alone, the quiet was a gift. Dean kept waiting to hear a heart monitor or the clicking of their doctor’s heels, but instead he heard white noise and Sam breathing next to him on the couch, eyes closed. It was a comfy couch.

Dean watched him until Sam fell asleep, upright and head lolled to his left where Dean sat, waiting for nothing. And then Dean remembered looking down, just like this, and seeing blood on his baby brother’s head, arm twisted beneath something. He shook it off and wandered over to the kitchen. He’d crawl to food or alcohol for something half as traumatizing. Fridge: beer. Awesome.

Boobtube and beer and trying to relax. He kept looking over at Sam, who was going to get a crick in his neck if he didn't move. But Dean didn’t have the heart to wake him up. Kid kept having nightmares at the hospital, slept maybe three to five hours a night, with awful catnaps during the day that left him feverish. So he let him sleep.

Dean took his first real shower, but he still had to put a plastic grocery bag over his hair to protect his stitches. Not being able to wash his hair properly was the worst of it all. It was itchy, greasy, nasty…but at least he was alive. At least they only had to shave about the size of a ping pong ball. At least Sammy was on the couch and not a cold, metal table.

Hot water rushed over his skin. _Maybe Julie was right_ , Dean thought. _Maybe this wasn’t going to be easy._

When Dean was dried and dressed he found Sam in the kitchen munching on an apple in the dark. The sun had gone down and Sam seemed to have forgotten how lights worked. “You good, man?”

“Yeah,” Sam replied, mouth full. Dean flicked on the lights and Sam winced.

“Still have a headache?”

“Yeah. Called. Said it was from the pain meds wearin’ off.”

“You allowed to take anything else?”

“Just popped some Excedrin.”

“Alright.” Dean turned the light back off, and flicked on the lights that ran under the cabinets instead, a low orange glow that was dimmer than the moonlight coming in the windows.

The first conversation they’d had in a while, and he had no idea he could feel so deprived. Sam looked like a wreck, and as tempted as he was to let him know, his mouth didn’t open. Instead, he joined him in leaning against the counter and grabbed Sam’s apple from his unsuspecting, loose grip, and took a bite.

“Hey-!” Sam reached over, but Dean lifted it up and away. If Sam were healthy, he could have plucked it right from Dean’s fingers, no problem. Maybe it was wrong of him to take advantage of their situation to mess with him. Maybe the smile on Sam’s face, rueful and bright, was worth it. So Sam bent into himself in defeat, without even trying, and looked right into Dean’s eyes.

They seemed to become aware of their proximity at the same time. Dean was pushed up against the counter, faux marble digging sharply into his lower back, and could feel Sam’s horse breath on his face. Could feel Sam hip pressed against him, the heat of his skin jarring.

He leaned forward, an arm reaching behind Dean, Sam’s cast knocking against his chest. Dean searched for a quip to take the tension out of the room, except Sam didn’t seem tense. He seemed like he meant every inch that he reached back.

And then he was gone, lift off, just like that, backing away and holding another apple to his lips.

Dean got the couch. Which was fine, because that meant he could watch a soap opera without Sam complaining about the bad acting and worse writing. He could drink beer at one o’clock in the morning and not get a lecture about health from Mr. Diet And Exercise. It was like turning 18 all over again.

Another week of helping Sam do basic human tasks and watching him hobble around the apartment, and Dean was going a bit stir crazy. He’d found a tin of dip in the trunk of the Impala and tried it out for a good ten seconds before he spit it onto the concrete and cursed his way to the nearest source of water.

Sam, on the other hand... Sam had passed crazy. Sam was meditating on the floor. He was asking Dean if he wanted to join. He was angry when Dean laughed at him in response. It was getting unbearable.

He was worse for wear-- so what? Sam’s weirdo health cult tactics couldn’t fix a skull fracture and broken ribs. Time would, though. Time and _rest_.

Week three and Sam was sharing intimate details of the fungus that may or may not grow under his cast if he wasn’t careful. Asking if he could see Dean’s stitches. Laughing at the way his hair looked with the bald spot, fuzzing up already. Dean finally snapped and told him he should go find some geek shit to do, and Sam did a little one-handed research and found a dog shelter nearby.

Dean waited until the door clicked closed before bolting to Sam’s computer bag. Of course he was going to take this opportunity to jerk off, and of course he was going to use his brother’s computer to do it.

After a while, nothing happened. He was maybe half up with a touch of sensitive, and baffled. A beautiful woman with dark, long hair is having the time of her life riding some beefcake’s cock and he can’t get it up? Maybe he was in a different mood, so he found a video of a guy jerking off, trying to pry at the voyeur in him. He had great muscles, and his jaw was clean, and his eyes were bright, and it was helping a little, but he kept getting tired. _What the fuck._ He switched hands for about ten seconds, but _no_ , that felt so wrong. Time went by, and he found his way to the world’s most unsatisfying orgasm of his life, drenched in sweat and arm vibrating with exertion. Twenty-six years old and he’s having a hard time. Damn shame.

At least he fell asleep easily.

Dean woke up to the sound of the coffee maker gurgling and pans crashing and thudding. Dean lifted his head over the couch to sneer at Sam, who was attempting to get a coffee mug out of the cabinet.

“Sorry,” Sam said weakly, picking up. Dean stretched and yawned on his way over. He grabbed two mugs from the cabinet and filled them up with coffee, helped Sam put the pans back. Cleaned up the sugar packets Sam had knocked over, ripping one open for his poor, useless brother.

“I’m thinking we head out at nine.”

“Head out?”

“Yeah. Leave. Got a phone call last night from Cath Bartel, said she’s got a problem she can’t fix.”

“Isn’t she the medium that you had sex with in like, twelfth grade?” Dean nodded. “Dude, she’d be like, one hundred years old by now.”

“I know, and she’s still pretty hot. You know, for a hundred year-old witch.”

Sam rolled his eyes at Dean’s grin, sipping his coffee and then setting it down. Too heavy for one sore hand. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Well, does nine work?”

Sam thought for a moment. About what, Dean had no clue. They had nowhere to be, nothing to do. Sam grabbed his mug and before it touched his lips, he looked up at Dean. “She lives in Blue Ridge.”

“Mhm. So?”

“I think I’m gonna sit this one out.”

Dean blinked, Sam walking into the bedroom and closing the door. “Sam! Sam.”

It took Dean a month to gather the emotional strength to find the nearest bar, and he sat at the counter and asked for whatever was on tap.

“Looks pretty rough,” the bartender said, a handsome twenty-something that probably smelled like lavender and sweat underneath his “Teddy’s Bar” t-shirt. He gestured to Dean’s general sphere, knowing somehow that he was damaged. Not that Dean was surprised.

“Doin’ a crack job of pretending it ain’t,” Dean mumbled, smiling amicably.

“Here you are, sir,” the guy said, the boy, he was a boy, he was tall and had a five o’clock and wore a watch, all those adult things, all a big game of make-believe. Like when Dad was gone for a few days and Sammy would find a pair of Dad’s boots and clunk around in the motel like godzilla. Or when Sammy would get cold, shivering in the dark, and Dean would take them out to the car, turn up the heat, and put his leather jacket over him while he curled up in the backseat, pulling him close because he was cold, too, especially without his damn jacket.

His busted ass car, sitting in a lot waiting for Dean to rescue it. If it could even _be_ rescued.

“Thanks.”

He had a few beers, watched a couple play pool in the corner. The lights seemed to get darker.

“Dean?”

Dean jumped out of his skin, his brother’s voice cutting through a quiet tune and the general hum. Sam sat next to him and gestured for the bartender.

“You must be Dean’s partner,” Kyle said. Kyle was a _boy’s_ name.

Sam’s eyebrows shot up, eyes wide. “Uh, yeah. Hi. ‘m Sam.” He looked over at Dean, who had a small smile on his smug face.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m gay,” Kyle said awkwardly. This didn’t seem to settle Sam, so he kept talking. “This town’s not psycho like most around. Sure, there’s some manic christians, but they keep their hands to themselves.”

“Good to know,” Dean said, kicking Sam. “He’ll have some beer.”

When Kyle left, Sam glared furiously. “Dude, c’mon.”

“What’s the matter, Sammy? How long are we gonna be here?” Dean finishes his beer and hops off of his stool, stretching as much as he can with his sore ribs. “‘Sides, he was hittin’ on me.”

“So you told him I was your boyfriend?”

“Partner. He just assumed that meant boyfriend, and I went with it. Didn’t want to hurt his feelings.”

Sam looked damn near offended, and for what reason Dean couldn’t understand.

“Why are you getting all,” he gestured wildly for a moment. “Aren’t you…” Dean trailed off, not wanting to go anywhere hazardous.

“Aren’t I what?”

“Never mind.” They were quiet for a moment, awkward as all hell, and Dean just couldn’t let it be. “I don’t have an issue here, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m comfortable with whatever I’ve got going on.” Dean blinked, thinking. “If you’re not secure--”

“Dean! Can we _not_ talk about this right now?” Sam’s face was red, from embarrassment, from guilt, whatever. Dean was in no place to judge, couldn’t even say the damn words himself.

“Drink your beer and shut up,” Dean said quietly, dismissively, and Kyle handed it to him, silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave kudos/comments if you enjoyed, so I know if I should keep writing or not lol. Thanks for stopping by!


	3. Chapter 3

**Tallahassee, Florida  
** **Two months later**

Dean placed a lot of his faith in his little brother. He trusted him to get the right beer, to do the research well and with ease. Hell, he’s even saved Dean’s life on occasion. But the one thing Dean knew he couldn’t trust Sam with was picking out a car.  
  
But he let him do it anyway because he’s the greatest big brother in the world, and it’s his mortal flaw, his Achilles’ foot or whatever.  
  
“This,” Dean said, the Tallahassee heat bearing down on him, “is garbage, dude.”  
  
Sam made some indignant sound and climbed out of the driver’s seat. The rusty, sometimes white pile of junk they’d had to manhandle to the side of the road was as fucked as Sam’s taste in cars.  
  
“I just want my baby,” Dean pouted, scratching his head. A grown man, wearing a rock ‘n roll tee and faded jeans that were covered in the dirt of graves and god knows what else, _pouted_ with all the dignity of a child pre-tantrum.  
  
“Oh, c’mon, man. Just... let’s fix it and get going.”  
  
For the first time in a long time, Sam heard trepidation and doubt spoiling the soft edges of Dean’s voice, “I don’t know if I can.”  
  
Sam rolled his eyes in true Sam fashion and sat back in the car. At least there he wasn’t under the summer sun. A car honked as it went past, a mini van full of teenagers laughing and blasting music. Dean laughed back and threw up his most stoic of middle fingers. “I need to hit something,” he said through bared teeth. “A lot.”  
  
“Dean.” Sam frowned at him through the glass.  
  
“A year ago, I would’ve just walked 800 miles before I drove one of these fuckin’ kids’ toys. You’re making me soft, Sammy.”  
  
“You were already soft,” Sam laughed softly despite himself and leaned over to peak under the hood. “What’s the problem?”  
  
“Either the oil has built up to the point of no return, or there’s somethin’ stuck in one of these valves here. I need tools I don’t have. And also less highway.”  
  
They’d put in several calls, mostly to hunters, and the only one close enough and available enough was a hunter they didn’t know too well, Leo Morrison, who promised he had an easy fix. When he arrived, a tall man with blonde hair and the requisite hunter’s garb—flannel and dusty, ill-fitting jeans—he announced he would tow the car to his garage and let them stay overnight, and he’d fix it up in the morning no problem.

“Anything for John’s boy’s. That man is a hero.” Neither of them had the heart to tell him he was missing.

His house was more or less a beach house, except the beach was a mile west and there was gravel instead of sand. He set them up in a spare bedroom with an air mattress and a regular twin bed. A dresser with a radio perched on top. It smelled clean, like what a home should smell like.

Sam fell onto the twin bed, just to sit, just to take a moment.

“Leo said he was barbequin’ tonight,” Dean chirped, something like excitement as he set his stuff down in front of the closet and looked around at their room. “And said he had more than enough to go ‘round. And this awesome home-brewed beer!”

“Nice.”

Dean sighed as if the great burden of the universe had suddenly fallen on his shoulders and his alone. “Can you stop being such a pussface? We got a roof over our heads tonight, good food to eat, great company. What’s your problem?”

“I don’t have a problem, Dean, I-I’m just tired.” Sam was more than tired. Sam was about ten seconds from taking some super glue to his eyelids. Dean had an inexplicable amount of energy for someone who’d only just fully recovered from his injuries. Sam was still struggling to walk. Woke up in the middle of the night with charlie horses where the muscle tissue was struggling to grow back. And the nightmares, of the dark glittering night where he felt like he might finally die, and where he’d only just made peace with it before he was being ripped into the cold metal of the hospital. “You should be tired, too.”

Dean winced. “Dude, is this about the car crash? Still? I know you haven’t been healing up too great, but I’m fine. Hair’s all grown back,” Dean patted his head as proof. “Only a few scars.”

Sam shook his head and stood. “Sorry, but I can’t pretend to be fine as well as you can. Just can’t. Now where’s this magical home-brew?”

Leo lived with his niece. Veronica was a six year old with wide, brown eyes and way too many questions.

“My sister was a hunter, too, got killed by a demon in Santa Barbara two years ago,” Leo explained as he worked on some ribs in his backyard. The sun would be going down in about an hour. “So I’ve been takin’ it easy. She goes to stay with ma when a hunter needs my help.”

“So you don’t seek out cases anymore?” Sam asked.

Leo shook his head and sipped his beer. “I’m not gonna endanger her life, ‘specially since I convincd my sister to help me with the demon.”

Sam swallowed a lump in his throat. “It’s not your fault.” His voice was quiet and steady, but he felt neither as he looked at Veronica. He felt enraged, empathetic, sick to his stomach. She was showing Dean a lizard she saw under a rock, and Dean was trying to capture it so she could get a better look. It’s thin tail was just a little too quick, and it slipped to safety past the fence.

Dean must’ve been thinking all the things Sam was, by the sadness in his eyes. But he smiled at Veronica, hunched over and so small on the ground as he spoke to her.

“What do you like to do for fun?” Dean asked.

“I like to play with Lego and eat.”

“She sounds just like me,” Dean shouted over to them, and Sam smiled fondly. Leo chuckled and said, “She’s just like her father. I only knew him for a short time. Nice man, ran a youth group for young black men in poor neighborhoods. This was back in Texas, where we all used to live. Taught them how to build character through art and sports, that kind of thing.”

“Noble,” Sam said, watching as Veronica’s pale brown curls bounced, her smile going with her as she picked up her hair bow and sat in the grass. Sam turned to Leo, who was putting the finished ribs on a large plate and turning his attention to some chicken he had yet to grill. “May I ask what happened?”

“Yeah, he, uh…” Leo’s face went pale, but he cleared his throat and recovered. It wasn’t burying anything, it was more like he was a veteran of explaining these shitty things that happened to his family, and he didn’t deserve to let it ruin his day anymore. Sam understood completely and yet somehow couldn't empathize, always telling half-lies. He wondered when the last time he'd really said the truth was. “Well, cops said he had a weapon in their face, but only thing he had on ‘em was his keys and his daughter.”

Sam and Dean made eye contact from across the yard, and Leo began to laugh. “Y’all aren’t used to this stuff yet, huh?” The brothers were silent, unsure what to say. “You’re both real young, so I’m not surprised. But you’re gonna meet a lot of people in your lives with stories like this, with your...career. Hell, I’m sure you two have quite the story to tell.”

Dean laughed awkwardly and stood, coming over to grab his beer from the picnic table Sam sat at. “Yeah, well. Yeah.”

“Our mom died when we were real young, ‘cause of a demon,” Sam said. “Our dad went a bit off the rails after that, hellbent on getting revenge. Forced us into the life young. You… can imagine the rest.”

Leo nodded and hummed in agreement.

Dean cleared his throat. “I’m really sorry for your loss.”

Both Leo and Sam looked at him. If they saw the hint of tears in his eyes, they didn’t say anything.

While Leo finished cooking, Sam and Dean followed Veronica as she showed off their mini vegetable farm, and introduced them to Jake The Scarecrow guarding it all. Jake had a bunch of warding on it, for demons and ghosts and things the boys didn’t recognize off-hand. _She would never know better,_ Dean thought sadly, _and she’d probably never be safer than with Leo for it._

Dean was washing up in the bathroom, feeling a little woozy from all the beer he’d had, his stomach so full it felt like he’d eaten rocks for dinner. Sam, on the other hand, had eaten a chicken breast and had only two and a half drinks, and he looked sadder than Dean felt.

“Y’shoulda had more beer,” Dean said obnoxiously, falling onto the twin bed with a sigh and letting his hand rest on his belly, rubbing circles into his skin.

“Didn’t feel like drying up his reserve, unlike my pig brother.”

“Bitch.”

Sam fell asleep, and Dean listened to his slow, quiet breaths until he followed.

In the morning, Dean woke up to an empty room. The sun had hardly come over the horizon, and there was some rustling coming from the living room.

Leo, Sam, and Veronica were sitting in front of the large front window, looking out over the horizon and drinking coffee. Dean leaned against the threshold into the room, eyes glued to the profile of his brother. His long hair was covering his eyes, curled at the ends, in desperate need of a trim. His skin was still pretty tan, but it’d lost a lot of its color lately. He was thinner, too. The lines of his face were catching on the early morning light, eyes glimmering. Dean smiled without his own consent, and Veronica shouted, “Dean!” and ran to him, ruining his cover.

“Hey, Veronica. These boys drag you out of bed to watch the sunrise?” She just nodded, and Dean could feel the warmth of the air, the freedom and serenity. The sun had already crawled up over the edge of the earth, and was making its way to the sky one painstaking inch by inch.

“A few weeks ago, I took her to the beach for it,” Leo explained. “She can’t get enough now.”

“Don’t worry,” Sam said. “One day she won’t remember what time the sun rises, let alone want to get up for it.” They all laughed, and things felt so achingly normal, and it scared him. It scared Sam to the core. He was just waiting for the rug to be pulled.

“Alright, well, I better get Veronica to school, and then I can work on your car.”

“Anything we can do for you while we’re here?” Sam asked.

Leo thought for a moment, and then looked around at the living room, all the toys and blankets scattered, books and CD cases lying around. “Hate to ask, but if you could pick up, just whatever you can, I’d really appreciate it.”

“Of course,” Sam said, and picked up his coffee from the side table and took a large gulp of it. He held it out to Dean, who made this ridiculous face and then swiped it and drank.

A few hours later, Leo had finished replacing something or cleaning it and reusing it or… Sam didn’t really understand, too distracted by the beads of sweat on the back of Dean’s neck, the way his muscles tensed and shifted beneath his skin as he cleaned the car.

“Wanna help, feel free!” Dean shouted, pulling a solid Karate Kid move on a particularly stubborn splotch of rust, near the headlight.

Sam smiled. “No thanks, I’m good.”

“What happened to this famed ‘67 Chevy Impala Dean’s told me so much about?” Leo asked, sitting next to Sam on the porch steps to take a break. The mid-morning sun was warm and unforgiving, but there was a breeze which made Sam’s hair toss and skin prickle.

Sam sucked in a breath as the vague and probably distorted images of the crash fled through his mind, and just as quickly were zapped away. “Uh...accident. Nothing too serious.”

“That’s good you’re okay.”

“Yeah.” Sam sipped his sweet tea and kept watching Dean work. “What did you tell Veronica?”

“Just that you were friends who need a place to stay and help with their car. So, the truth.”

“Not the whole truth.”

“Hopefully she won’t ever hear that.”

Sam looked over at him finally with a frown. “You don’t want her to know?”

“Nope. I’ve fought with myself on it, sure, but it always turns out the same: If she’s her mother’s child, she’ll want to help people more than be normal. And I’d take the consequences of hiding things from her over her never getting a chance at happiness. Any day.”

“I understand, but-- And I don’t mean to impose, but in my personal experience with lies… the truth always comes out. And it’s never pretty.” Sam smiled and wiped a hand on his damp forehead. “It’s better to let her make her own decisions. But, again, don’t want to tell you how to raise your kid.”

“I’ve got some time before I need to make that kinda decision. But thank you.”

Dean didn’t think he’d ever smile again until his baby purred to life beneath him, but the sound of this awful car coming back from the dead, however underwhelming, was accomplishment enough. He grinned and looked over at Sammy, who had stood at the sound. Dean gave him two thumbs up and smacked the hood of the car proudly, grin as garish and bright as ever.

“Looks like you boys are all set,” Leo had convinced them to stay until Veronica got back, so she could say goodbye. He also wanted to give them some of his sister’s hunter supplies, a few weapons and ingredients for spells. A couple mythological books. A bottle that was labelled “The Blood of Christ” and was, unfortunately, just some virgin lamb’s blood. Leo explained she had thought it was funny, always had a sense of humor, even in the dark and dirt of the life.

Sam couldn’t help but well up, and excused himself to the bathroom. He splashed his face with water and waited the feeling out. God, everything was getting to him. He’d tried so hard to get away from it all, and everything he’d known before Stanford was coming back and it was easy. It was so fucking easy to just take it and hold onto it and want it. Because Dean was there. Because he didn’t have to be so afraid all the time, if he had his gun and his brother and his mind.

Veronica was upset to see them go, but didn’t cry. Sam was grateful. They all waved goodbye as Dean pulled away, frowning. Sam understood, missed the rumbling of the Impala’s engine as much as him.

Sam fell asleep for about an hour, and when he woke up he was restless. “I talked to him about, you know, handling Veronica.”

Dean squinted his eyes. “What would you know about raising a damn kid, Sammy?”

“No, I mean about hunting. Telling her, keeping her safe. I gave him some contacts from Dad’s journal, just in case. People who could help, if she ever decided to look into it all.”

“Well, I told him to never tell her about any of it if he knows what’s good for her,” Dean grumbled, pulling into a gas station.

Sam turned to him, giving him a big old bitchface, which Dean dismissed. Sam spoke anyway. “No, it’s not fair to her to be lied to her whole life.”

“He doesn’t have to lie! She was a bank teller who liked to hunt. She’ll assume he means animals, maybe she’ll get into that-- which is a hell of a lot more helpful and, damn it, you know what I’m trying to say.” Dean trailed off, climbing out of the car and heading inside. Sam just sat and bit his cheek in thought.


	4. Chapter 4

**Mongtomery, Alabama**

**The next day**

They were in Montgomery when Sam happened to grab a paper from the grocery store they had stopped in to see what day it was. He saw the police had settled on a media-name for their new serial killer, the Alabama Ripper. Real original. He kept reading, and immediately recognized the signs of some kind of monster. Tearing apart the flesh of people like that was just… not possible for another human. Sam snorted and shook his head when Dean found him with an armful of junk-food and a separate but equally full arm of alcohol. “I thought we came here to grab a meal to make,” Sam said. “While we have that free room with the kitchen?”

“Yeah, I know, but I know you’re not gonna cook enough, and I’m gonna get hungry later,” Dean explained, putting everything in the cart Sam had at his hip, a few things to make some Thai dish already there. He watched with disdain as they were covered up by pork rines, oatmeal cream pies, a single can of Redbull, and beer. “Plus, lady by the cheese said there’s been horrible murders in the area, and I think we--”

Sam held up the paper, front page glaring the title, “Alabama Ripper Horrifies Southeast” in bold, white letters. Dean smirked and said, “Always one step ahead’a me, Sammy.”

“Says that the latest victim was right here in Montgomery, and the one before being in, get this, _Hunt_ sville.”

“Huntsville. Well that’s a damn joke. Let’s eat up and get our monkey suits on, then. Yeah?”

Victim numero dos was a John Doe that, until Sam and Dean (or, Agents Monroe and Donahue) showed up, had stayed unidentified.

“Damn it, Sam,” Dean whispered, looking down at Eric Hall’s head and, seriously, only his head.

“What?” Sam asked, doing that skittish turn-around he seemed to be into lately.

“I know him. Hunter. We worked together on a… well, it doesn’t matter now, does it?” Sam frowned and went to the next examination table. He lifted up the stained sheet to get a look at Hall’s shredded torso and legs and felt a wave of nausea hit him, hard. He braced against the table and suddenly Dean was up behind him, under his arm to keep him upright. “If you gotta barf just don’t do it on the body.”

Back at the motel, Sam took his time in the shower, and Dean watched the news until his eyes felt like they were going to bleed. He popped a Little Debbie in the little toaster oven by the sink, just to see if it would be good hot. It was.

Sam slept fitfully, and Dean was on the same bed, trying not to wake him up and throttle him.

In the morning they were both looking a little rough, and took their coffee black at the nearest cafe.

“So, I noticed you were having  a nightmare,” Dean said carefully, each word chosen to cater to Sam’s tendency to flee. “What was it about?”

Sam shrugged as he dug into his omelette. “Not really, anything. Dunno, don’t remember.”

He could sense the bullshit easily and pressed, “Really? ‘Cause it seemed pretty intense.”

Sam went on to yell at Dean for being insensitive, uninterested, a bully, all the while avoiding the question. Dean didn’t think he could take much more of it before the waiter came by and refilled their coffees and saved him from the pain.

“Was it Jess? Mom? The crash? What?”

“Alright, Christ. It was the crash.” Sam took a deep breath. “I keep having this dream that there’s this person, like, this figure standing outside the car as it… rolled. Just watching, not helping or anything. And then when the car stops you’re, like, passed out or whatever and, uh, God, I don’t know, Dean. It’s not a problem.”

Dean rolled his eyes and scarfed down another little sausage. “If you want to take a break, if you’re not ready… I get it.” Sam tried to speak, but Dean didn’t let him. “No, I’m serious. Monsters can wait.”

“Thanks, Dean.” Dean grunted in response and they ate quietly. Sam was relieved. “So what should we do?”

“What d’you mean?”

“Well, if we’re taking a break. I assume you mean from looking for Dad, too, so…”

“Woah, you’re the one taking a break. I’m still gonna hunt.”

Sam maintained his best bitch face, but Dean’s was set in stone. Of course Dean was going to keep hunting, dragging Sam around, making him do all the sleepless nights of research and uncomfortable public records visits. It was going to be a nightmare all on its own, no help from Sam’s subconscious.

But they pushed through to Huntsville after a week of dead ends, and followed up with the coroner who did the autopsy.

“You sure you’ll be okay?” Dean asked as they got out of the car.

“Yeah, Dean. The body’s been cremated. And, I’m still not entirely sure--”

“Yeah, okay…”

The coroner was a mild-mannered, graying man with glasses that seemed to slip down his nose. He looked at them skeptically, but went over his original file. “So, as I said, it’s highly unlikely that this was an animal attack. I’d think it was some sort of cult activity, but we don’t get much of that down here.”

Justin Hyung-sik was the son of a hunter Dean only remembered meeting once when he was really young, before he really knew what his father did. Justin was a lanky, awkward guy with way too many toys in his room for a twenty year-old. Not to speak ill of the dead…

Dean nodded and looked over to Sam to have some kind of confirmation that they were on the same it’s-after-hunters-dude page, but he was busy geeking out over a strange piece of equipment off to the right of the morgue. It was big, and looked like some kind of computer from the seventies, but there was more to it than that, and Dean didn’t have a lifetime to look into it much further. “Cult. Huh, alright, well thank you for your help. You wouldn’t happen to have the victim’s family contacts, would you?”

Dr. Manford poised his lips in thought. “As the FBI, wouldn’t you just have to make a phone call for that kind of information?”

“Yeah, well,” Dean hardly missed a beat. “It’s quicker since you’re here.”

 

Justin’s mother agreed to see them, but only for a moment. They sat on her porch, in their civvies, and the sun was bright and warm. Huntsville was very similar to their hometown, a quaint city with suburbs and families and trimmed grass. Dean only wished they’d been offered a beer instead of iced tea. “Lee was a really great man, but he got so carried away with the life. I took Justin and moved here and never saw him until they found his body in Decatur. It was heartbreaking, to hear that my son was murdered. He never killed a monster in his life.”

“Catherine, we understand that the other victim was also a hunter,” Dean said softly. “A man named Eric Hall, and another was found, murdered three days ago another hunter, but we just heard about it on the radio-- Richard Hernandez.” He was running for mayor of a nearby city, and was found by his son in their home. “Would your ex-husband have any connection to these men?”

Catherine shook her head. “I wouldn’t know. He kept that side of his life from me. I have his belongings in the basement. If it would help, you can take it with you. You don’t need to bring it back.”

As they entered the house, Sam walked a little slower. His limp was better, but was still noticeable. He hadn’t been complaining about it, so Dean assumed he felt fine, but there was definitely something else up and he was about ready to waterboard it out of him just to get it over with.

“Can I see his room?” Sam asked. The other two stopped at the foot of the stairs.

“I cleared it out, but his things are down here, as well,” Catherine said pensively. Sam was a little surprised that only two weeks after her son’s death she’d cleared out his room, but grief was a funny thing.

The first thing that should have told them that something wasn’t right was the fact that the basement was completely bare of, well, anything at all. No boxes, no rat traps. Only the occasional cobweb and some paint cans.

Actually, there were probably a million reasons why they should’ve seen the blow, but their backs were turned to her when they came down.

Sam came to and immediately sneezed, blood spraying everywhere. Dean was across the room, doubled over in the corner.

“Dean,” Sam whispered, frantically trying to get up. He felt like his entire body was made from a sticky, heavy jelly. “Dean, please. Wake up.”

Dean groaned and attempted to lift his head. “I’m not sleepin’ over here, idiot.”

Sam laughed and then coughed. “Where is she?”

Dean shrugged. “Upstairs. Probably gathering her torturing devices or something. Can you move? I can’t move. Can’t even lift my head.”

“Only my head and arms. My legs feel like they’re gone.”

Dean sighed and seemed to steel himself for something, but all he did was rock back for a moment and then return to his position, his head falling back against the wall. “Nice,” he said to himself, and then a look of horror crossed his face. “Dude, you’re fucking naked!”

Sam looked down and, yes, he was naked. And Dean could see every inch. And even though he was literally paralyzed below his arms, his body had the audacity to make him blush. “Holy shit, what?”

“I’m not naked, am I?” Sam shook his head with a frown. “Good.”

“That’s not really your biggest concern right now, is it?”

Dean smirked, his finger twitching at his side. “No, my biggest concern is that my little brother’s such a Sasquatch that he’s got balls that span the coast of Italy--”

“Dude, what the fuck!” Sam tried his best not to be loud, but whispering wasn’t all that intimidating.

“I’m just saying. Winchester genes and all,” he winked, taking in short, sharp breaths. “I think I might be hyper- Hyperventroll-- Hyper, y’know, whatever.”

“Stay calm, Dean, just… don’t think too much. Focus on your body. Can you move anything at all?”

Dean moved his fingers again and looked at Sam like someone had just stolen his candy. Sam looked around for his clothes, and they were tossed across the basement by the boiler. He set his head back against the support beam he was leaning on and took in a few deep breaths before he forced himself into an army-crawl position. The freezing cold concrete was an absolute shock to his junk, and he tried not to wince as it scraped painfully as he crawled, all the weight of his lower half seeming to press right where it shouldn’t.

Dean let out a series of painful sounds, making Sam stop halfway there to look at him. “What? What’s wrong?”

“Is your dick bleeding?” Dean asked, having watched the whole ordeal and seen blood smear as he moved.

“What? No, it’s from my-- Just, be quiet.” When Sam reached his clothes, he found his phone and called Bobby, telling him where they were and what had happened. Bobby promised to put in a call to a few hunters near them and head over himself. He called back to tell them who’d be there and when, and luckily there was a group of hunter’s only twenty minutes away. “Hey, can you stay on the phone?”

“Sure thing, Sam. You’re sure she ain’t there?”

“Yeah, the house is silent and we’ve just sort of been left down here.”

“Well, help is on the way. So neither of you can move?”

“Dean can hardly move his neck, but I’ve got my arms upward. It’s so weird, I can’t even think of how this would happen.”

“I think it’s a special poison,” Dean said, and Sam put Bobby on speaker. “Was a job back in ninety-nine where the victims were left like this for days, and then they disappeared. Have a feeling it’s the same son of a bitch, just changed its style.

“Lou Carcolh. Was that it?”

“French named freak? Yeah, looks like a snail and it’s all, hairy and tentacle-y and gross.”

“What did you just say about me?” The disembodied voice of “Catherine” seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once, and both Sam and Dean cowered. They couldn’t see anything in the room, however.

“I was just saying how those old French tales of your species got it all wrong. You aren't actually a giant snail, you just look, smell, and sound like one. And once you’re not in human form anymore, there’s one little catch-- you move like one.”

Sam mouthed, “What the hell are you doing?”

“Very good,” the monster said, still nowhere to be seen. “But that’s why we have our poison, to trap you while we have you. It’s an amazing thing, the convenience of evolution. Too bad you humans gave up on that a long time ago. No weapons, no tricks, you’re helpless.”

“Yeah, not entirely. There’s gonna be about ten large, muscular, enraged men busting down your little white picket fence any second now, and you’ll be toast.”

“Are you Dean Winchester?”

For all of his trying, he was surprised he’d lasted this long. Sam seemed only as spooked as Dean felt, which wasn’t a good sign. “Uh, yeah. Remember me? What, lemme guess. I killed your husband or something.”

“No. You killed Icthius. He was a perverted leech, hardly one of my pedicure. You haven’t seen anything yet.”

Sam decided to chime in. “Actually, you’re right. We literally haven’t seen anything. What’s the hold up? Just kill us already.”

“You’re sweet. Like a toddler. I might just keep you.”

“Fucking creep,” Dean muttered.

Through Sam’s phone, he could hear Bobby say, “What in the hell is going on over there?” and then upstairs, fairly close, the sound of footsteps and about three different men shouting variations of, “Ew, what the fuck is that? Kill it, Larry, god damn!”

Gun shots. More footsteps. Sam realized a little too late that he was still laying down, completely naked and covered in some weird slime. Dean had fallen over, finally regaining strength back in his left arm but otherwise very much immobile.

Two guys came down and hesitated, but didn’t say anything. Just gave each other a look.

“Alright, pretty boy, let’s get these clothes back on,” A younger man said, grabbing up his clothes and helping Sam to his feet. He wobbled at first, but managed to hold onto the boiler behind him and the shoulder of the man in front of him. “Shoot, is your dick bleeding?”

Dean’s laughter rang in his ears like church bells through a city.

Sam and Dean were resting in the upstairs living space of a hunter’s bar that evening, thankfully no longer poisoned. The owner of the bar, Larry, had them put in what used to be his sons’ room. It reminded Sam of his Stanford dorm; every bit of youth compiled awkwardly to make up for lost time. Action figures beneath a poster of Charlie’s Angels, next to a line of trophies that ended with a piggy bank and a picture of the family on the desk. Years of changes trying to make sense of where it all belonged.

Dean was fast asleep on the top bunk. After showering all of the slime off and packing in a hearty meal, he was out cold. Sam, however, was still trying to wrap his head around one of the weirdest jobs they’d ever had. It was funny, it was. He found himself smiling, staring at the wood above him. It was still hard for him to admit he’d missed this, but there wasn’t a father to stand up to, or a better life waiting for him. As far as he was concerned, Dean was the better life.

When Dean was awoken by the sound of his little brother laughing, he rolled over as far as he could to find him in tears beneath him, jostling the rickety bunk beds.

“What’s so funny?” Dean asked, trying to be upset, but he was smiling.

“Just, today. This whole week.”

“It was a pretty weird job, huh?”

“We never even saw her! What did it look like?”

“Oh, back then it was just this snail person. It was something out of a damned cartoon. Or one of those horror manga.”

Sam suddenly burst out laughing even more. “Did you just say mangas? Oh, why am I surprised that you read those…”

“What? Some of them are good.” He flopped back down petulantly, but Sam was still shaking from laughter. “Okay, yuck it up, but I’ve seen your dick all covered in blood and let me tell you--”

“Three years ago, you had to wear ladies underwear for a week when you had the stomach flu because all yours got--”

“Hey, not cool--!”

They both fell symbiotically back into fits, and Sam thought, for once, that maybe things did get easier.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Leave comments/kudos if you enjoyed/want more!


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